


The in-between moments

by jspringsteen



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Complete, Friendship, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-08-23 19:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jspringsteen/pseuds/jspringsteen
Summary: Roger and Freddie's friendship, told through deleted scenes from the movie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger stays for dinner with Freddie after all.

_There will be time, there will be time (…)_  
_Time for you and time for me,_  
_And time yet for a hundred indecisions,_  
_And for a hundred visions and revisions,_  
_Before the taking of toast and tea._  
  
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

*

When Freddie has a picknick, he does it on an oriental rug. When Roger comes back from the phone booth to tell Dominique he’s staying for dinner at Freddie’s, he has to laugh, seeing him sitting cross-legged there in the middle of the otherwise bare room, sipping champagne from a crystal flute and nibbling on a sandwich with tinned ham from a dainty porcelain dish. He looks right at home. King – no,  _Queen_ – Freddie the first.

“I’m giving up coq au vin for tinned ham sandwiches?” He saunters closer, looks around the room again. One of the cats appears in the doorway, mewls plaintively, and then moves on, presumably to its own suite.

“It’s all I had in the cupboard, darling, but if you insist, there’s an Indian place down the road.” Roger, staring out the window, can hear the sly smile on his face when he says, “Of course, it’s quite enough for me to feast my eyes on a dish like you.”

Roger rolls his eyes but can’t quite hide his smile as he turns around and bows to take off his shoes. He joins Freddie on the rug. Next to the plate of ham sandwiches is a silver dish with a mass of quivering red jelly on it, a tin of sardines, and sliced bread that actually looks fresh. Between them is a magnificent porcelain tea pot with gold-rimmed cups on a tray that has definitely belonged to a royal family member at one point. When he looks up at Freddie, he winks while taking a sip of champagne.

“Champagne, Rog?”

“No thanks, I’m driving.”

“Ah, ‘the machine of a dream, such a clean machine’… Tea, then?” Without waiting for a reply, he sets down his glass, bends forward and pours steaming hot tea into a cup. Roger is reminded of the tea parties he used to have with his sister in the garden when they were children. He imagines Freddie as a sort of Mad Hatter holding a tea party for his cats, setting out their food in a circle around him while he reclines with a cup between two fingers.

“Fred… are you alright?” Roger asks. “I mean… are you eating alright?” He gestures at the jelly.

Freddie laughs his tinkling laugh. “I’m marvellous. Who’s got time to do the shopping when you’re moving house?”

“I could’ve picked something up on my way here…”

“Nonsense, Rog. Go on, have a sandwich. I hope we’re not both above sandwiches at this point.”

Smiling at the irony of those words said in what can only be described as a ballroom, Roger takes a sandwich and bites down, idly thinking of that time their van stalled along the motorway and he was eating the exact same thing, vowing to himself that if they made it big he would never sit in a van or eat a ham sandwich again. Yet here he is, and – it’s actually quite good. Good old English tinned ham and a scrape of mustard.

Freddie watches him as he eyeballs the room again. “I feel like I’m having tea in Versailles,” Roger says, crumbs falling out of his mouth.

Freddie laughs. “That’s the idea. Say what you will about old Louis XIV - executions aside, the man had an eye for interior design.”

He leans back on one arm, his legs stretched out on the rug. He looks down at it and says, offhandedly, “This is a Bulsara family heirloom, you know.”

Roger looks down between his legs. If it once had yellows they’ve faded completely to beige, and there are brown blots on it that may or may not be part of the pattern. It could use a good wash, but he doesn’t say so.

“You’ve kept that with you all this time?”

Freddie nods. “My parents brought it back from Zanzibar. It used to be my grandmother’s. It was in my bedroom while I was growing up… It was in our living room when I lived together with Mary. And it’s the first thing I brought over here.” He smiles a little. “To make it feel like home.”

His face clouds over for a second and he chews his lip.

“How is Mary?” Roger asks. Freddie’s face lights up.

“Oh, she is marvellous. She’s moving in next weekend. I can’t wait to live so close to her again.”

“That’s great.” But Freddie continues chewing his lip after he says it, and stares at the window from where he’ll be able to see her.

The wide, white room feels stifling somehow and makes him want to leave, all of a sudden. Roger coughs. “I should, uh…” But when Freddie turns his head and looks at him with that expectant look – the very same he wore so many years ago when he first handed them a song he had written – the words stick in his throat.

“I’ll have some champagne after all,” Roger finishes, lamely, and Freddie is on his feet in an instant. “Not to worry, I’ll get some.” He is back in a minute, carrying an ice cooler with a big bottle in it. He fills up Roger’s glass with the grace of a waiter at a burlesque party – which, of course, is exactly how he looks now with his moustache.

“And how is Dominique? And the children?” Freddie asks him as he hands him the glass.  _Oh, bloody hell,_ Roger thinks, _is this how each visit will go from now on? Does he imagine I’ve gone respectable just because I got married?_  

“They’re fine, yeah.” Freddie fixes him with a look.

“Am I sensing some hesitation to talk about your beloved family? No trouble in paradise, I hope?”

“No, Fred,” Roger says. He takes a sip. “There’s just not much going on with them, is all.”

“It must be nice to be able to spend so much time with them, though,” Freddie muses, scooping up a spoonful of the jelly. Roger watches, fascinated, as the quivering blob disappears into his mouth. Freddie swallows, shudders, then puts the spoon down again with a light laugh.

“I’ve always wanted to try that. And I’m glad to say… it’s disappointing.”

Roger raises his eyebrows, contemplating the jelly. Ever the adventurous one, Freddie.

“Yeah, it is nice to be able to spend time together... Though sometimes I miss, you know… not having anybody to answer to.” The words are out before he knows it. Roger bites his lip. He’s already said too much. Even though Freddie probably knows him better than anyone, such off-the-cuff proclamations will start living their own life with him – one that isn’t necessarily based on true facts. He reaches for a slice of bread, opens the tin of sardines and begins piling them on.

Freddie hums. “Well, I think it’s wonderful that you’ve found someone to settle down with, darling. Things were really getting out of hand a bit.” He gives Roger a mock-stern look that quickly turns into a grin.  

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Fred,” Roger laughs. True, the sanctity of marriage isn’t always the first thing on his mind after a six-hour recording session culminating in a six-hour drinking session at the pub next door, as Freddie well knows. The press, however, seem to see only Freddie’s revolving door of partners, which really seems quite unfair. _Vultures,_ Roger thinks with disgust, as he holds out the knife covered in sardine scales for one of the cats to lick clean.

“You should bring Dominique next time you come round. When I’ve decorated the place…” he takes in the room with a sweep of his arm, “it’ll be one big never-ending party… full of dark corners for dark deeds, of course.” His grin borders on a leer.

 _And you want me to bring my wife?_  Roger thinks, but he gives Freddie a smile. “Will do.” He watches as Freddie fawns over the cat, chewing his sardines on toast. His bum is beginning to hurt despite the rug.

“Do you really think the moustache makes me look gayer?” Freddie asks him suddenly. Roger looks at him and squints.

“Yeah, you do.”

“But  _why_?” Freddie muses, more to himself than to Roger. Somehow, whatever he wears, Freddie always looks right at home – overdressed, yes, but completely at ease. Like a chameleon. Roger admires that about him. He hasn’t felt the need yet to cut off his blond mane, or stop wearing shirts with the chest unbuttoned. He’s only thirty and still, he knows, as Freddie said, a dish. Why change his uniform?

“How can something as simple as facial hair carry out the message that I like cock?”

Roger laughs at his blunt phrasing. “Well, it’s not just the moustache, is it, Fred? It’s also the clothes, and the hair, and… the fact that you like cock.”

Freddie smiles, his chin resting on his folded hands. “Still… isn’t it odd that people associate dresses, moustaches, glittery scarves only with certain people… I wish they’d let everybody just wear what they want.” He pauses, then adds, “And love who they want.”

Roger doesn’t know how to answer that. To him, Freddie always embodied exactly that – no shame, no doubts about who he was. He remembers the afternoon when they were over at the Bulsaras’ and Freddie announced his name was now Mercury – just as if he’d said the greengrocer’s was out of carrots, by the way.

“How’s your sister?” he asks, abruptly.

Freddie laughs. “Oh, bloody hell. You’re not still after her, are you, Rog?”

Roger grins. “I’m not, I promise. I was just thinking of that afternoon where you… became Freddie Mercury.”

“Ah, but I didn’t  _become_ Freddie Mercury, darling. I was  _born_ Freddie Mercury. I just didn’t know it yet.” Freddie reaches for his champagne again. Roger, still holding his, smiles. Even after all these years, he still can’t quite separate Freddie the man from Freddie the singer of Queen. It seems only his lyrics say what really goes on in his mind – and even those are often impenetrable.  _Somebody to Love,_ not a mystery – but  _Bohemian Rhapsody_?

Freddie says, “Could you imagine if you’d become a dentist?”

“I think about it sometimes,” Roger says. “Probably wouldn’t be dressing like this, then.”

Freddie laughs. “Now, that’s a dentist I wouldn’t mind going to. Even if I am terrified of them.”

Roger frowns. “You’re afraid of dentists?”

“Obviously.” Freddie gestures to his teeth. “I’m afraid that after one look at my choppers they’ll strap me down and submit me to excruciating torture.”

“Well, they might,” Roger says, a teasing note creeping into his voice, “if they know you like that sort of thing.” Freddie throws his head back and laughs. The tension seems to seep from his body.

“Oh,  _you_  would _,_ Rog.” He grins.

It’s always like this with Freddie. A pat on the bum, a kiss blown, a suggestive eyebrow waggle. Always flirting. He remembers being puzzled for a good deal of the time after they’d just met about whether Freddie was genuinely making a pass at him, or simply felt free to be himself at last.

As the echoes of Freddie’s laughter die away among the plasterwork, it dawns on Roger how lonely Freddie must be. Mary is close by, yes, but she will surely want to live her own life.  _He has his cats,_ he tells himself. And he’s been pretty close with Paul…

The cat knocks over his glass of champagne, which quickly disappears into the fibres of the rug. Freddie gasps. “Romeo, mind your step!” He gathers up the cat to his chest and gets up to get a towel.

When he returns, Roger has got to his feet and is tying his shoes. He straightens and puts his hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “Fred, you’re always welcome to drop by my house, you know that, don’t you? Any time?”

Freddie places his warm hand over Roger’s and pats it with the other. “Of course, Rog. Just as you’re always welcome here.” He kneels down and begins to scrub at the stain. The red jelly quivers on its dish.

Roger stares down at his back. He feels like he should say something about Paul, about the bad feeling he and Brian both have about him, but Freddie seems so happy to see him, and Paul’s very name seems enough to call up his ghost into the empty room – and even his ghost is something he’d rather not leave Freddie alone with. But then he thinks,  _He’ll figure it out, won’t he? Freddie’s not one to let himself be cheated._

He clears his throat.

“Um, I should go. Thanks for dinner, Fred.” Freddie gets up again and grasps Roger’s extended hand. His wide, champagne-blurred eyes seem to search his face for something, but he only offers him a slow, genuine smile.

“Thanks so much for stopping by, Rog. It means a lot to me.”

Freddie rests his arm on his shoulder as he walks him to the door. Roger’s car is parked in front of the house, a bright red Jaguar E-type, and Freddie whistles when he sees it.

“Now, that’s the sort of car a man could fall in love with.” Roger rolls his eyes and Freddie lets out a peal of laughter, slapping him on the bum as he descends the steps.

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” Roger calls over his shoulder.

“I promise you won’t,” Freddie calls back, still giggling, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame.

“I’ll take you for a ride some time,” Roger promises, opening the door. He can’t hear Freddie’s reply over the starting engine. He drives off, waving at Freddie, and as he speeds down the street he sees him still in his rear view mirror, waving.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not come away from BoRhap shipping anyone but... I liked how Ben and Rami played off each other.  
> Updated after a second viewing of the movie. 
> 
> Comments make my day!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Roger fall out during Freddie's party.

Freddie wasn’t lying about the parties.

The house is bursting at the seams with people. An endless panorama of painted faces, feathered hats, sequins, afros and headbands stretches from the hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. The six of them have claimed the couches in the sitting room, from where they’ve barely moved since their arrival. Chrissie and Dominique are chatting away while John is holding forth about the new amp he’s building, finding an enraptured audience of two in Brian and his wife. Every once in a while they chat to the waiters, who find in their little circle an oasis where they can wipe their brows and drop their plastered-on smiles for a second or two.

Roger listens to John with one ear, idly tapping his fingers on his knee while gazing around the room. In the two weeks since he was here last, Freddie has filled it to the brim with angular furniture, plants, and a large piano. Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes” is barely audible over the hubbub from the crowd.

Brian cranes his neck, looks around at the crowd, and shakes his head, an action he has repeated periodically over the course of the evening. Now, he asks no one in particular, “Where did all these people come from? Who _are_ they?”

John shrugs. “He must’ve met them at all these label parties we always skip.”

“Yeah, or they’re just gadflies, looking for blood.” Roger nods at the door, where Paul is seen circling around, darting the occasional look upstairs. When they walked in Paul was there to greet them, and he told them, solemnly, that the first floor is off limits – as if Freddie were his religious master who couldn’t be disturbed during his rites. (Actually, that does sound like Freddie.) His edict hasn’t stopped visitors from claiming the entirety of the staircase, though.

It’s crystal clear now that Paul has a crush on Freddie: how close he leans to him whenever they’re talking, his delighted giggles at Freddie’s offhand flirtations, his constant, _constant_ need to trail after him and back up his every statement. And Freddie doesn’t even seem to mind – if anything, he thrives on the attention.

“Acts like he bloody owns the place,” John says, disturbing Roger’s train of thought, and he nods to Paul, who now appears to be throwing a small tantrum because they have run out of deviled eggs.

“I wish Reid would put a leash on him,” Brian adds. “Keep him out of our hair.” Roger raises his eyebrows. It’s uncommon for Brian to be so frank about his dislike of someone. But Paul seems to bring out the nastily gossiping school girl in all of them.

The streams of champagne have begun to do their work. “Anyone know where the loo is?” he asks his bandmates. Brian points right, towards the kitchen, while John points left to the hallway. They both burst out laughing.

“If you ask me, any of those potted plants will do,” John says, grinning.

“I think I’ll leave whipping it out at parties to Freddie,” Roger laughs. “Speaking of… has anyone seen him yet?”

Brian and John shrug. “He’s about,” Brian says. “I think I saw him in the kitchen when I came in. But it’s like bloody Mecca in here. To get to him you have to circle around for an hour.”

Roger stands up.

“Right, I’ll be back.”

He pushes through the crowd. People move out of his way reluctantly; nobody seems to recognise him. He reaches the hallway and stares upwards. The landing does look quiet, even if the staircase is teeming with people. There must be a toilet upstairs. Roger tries to shoulder his way through a clump of people at the bottom, but just as he approaches they explode with laughter at something, closing their circle as they gasp for breath.

“Excuse me.” Roger tries to slip through, but a second ripple of laughter drives him back again.

“Excuse me!” he bellows. The people stop laughing and look at him, as if astonished to find him there.

“Oi oi, don’t mind us, Doris Day,” one man says, holding up his hands with mock innocence as the others burst into fresh laughter.

Roger clenches his fists and whips around. “Watch it,” he hisses, “I’m the fucking drummer, alright?” He plows through the group and pushes his way upstairs, slipping on dresses and knocking over a drink, relieved when he finally reaches the landing.

All the doors on the first floor are closed. Probably so the cats don’t escape. He tries a few of them and hallelujah, the third one is the toilet. It’s so clean and tidy that he can’t even bring himself to leave the seat up. He washes his hands under a gold-painted tap with soap that smells strongly of roses.

After closing the door behind him, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes. The noises from downstairs drift up to him: clinking glasses, people talking, somebody somewhere playing a piano. No—hang on, that’s not coming from downstairs. Roger opens his eyes and peers around the corner. One of the doors spills a strip of light into the darkened hallway.

He peers inside through the crack, then eases the door open. Freddie’s seated at the piano with his back to him, playing a slow song he hasn’t heard before.

Roger pushes the door a little further open and clears his throat. Freddie turns around, and breaks into a smile when he sees him.

“Rog! You came!” He rises from his seat and comes to meet him. He half falls against Roger, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck. _High,_ Roger decides, and gently unravels himself.

“We’re all downstairs—Brian, Chrissie, Deaky, Dominique and I…”

“Oh, how marvellous.” Freddie smiles, strangely vulnerable. He is wearing a military jacket with flashy trimmings, black trousers and no shoes. Like Sergeant Pepper on cocaine.

“So… won’t you join us?” Roger prompts, after a pause.

“Oh, I’d love to but I’ve got this idea for a song, you see… I’ve just been sitting here working it out.” Freddie turns back to his piano and sits down at it, playing him the first bars of what he just heard drifting down the corridor.

Roger nods. “Sounds good, Fred.” He walks towards the piano, rests his hand on it as he looks around the room. Everything seems to have been done up in burgundy velvet, and it makes him feel like he’s in a womb. He turns back to Freddie. In the soft pink light, despite the moustache, he looks younger than Roger’s seen him in years.

“Fred?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re not hiding up here, are you?”

Freddie stops playing and looks up. “Of course not. Why would I be?”

Roger fixes him with a look. “You tell me. You’ve been up here for the past two hours while your guests are drinking your 200 pound champagne and pissing it away in your potted palms.”

Freddie raises his eyebrows. “Good grief. Well, I’m sure Paul is keeping them entertained. He came early, you know, helped me set things up.”

“Did he, now?” Roger leans on the piano with both arms. “Fred, you know I love a good party—”

“Yes, I do,” says Freddie, busying himself with scribbling something with a pencil on his sheet music.

“—but something about this seems off. Don’t get me wrong, but these people…”

“They’re just looking for a good time, Rog,” Freddie says, still not looking up at him. “They love the band. They’re here for us.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it,” Roger bursts out. “They didn’t even know who _I_ was!” Freddie is looking at him now. His raised eyebrow only enrages him further.

“They’re here for _you,_ Fred, not for the band. Stop trying to make it seem like we’ve all got an equal part in this. You know what the press are saying. You’re a great singer, Freddie, but you’ve got controversy on your arse like a dog. And these people, they’re _leeches_ —"

“It’s _my_ party, Roger,” Freddie says, slowly, “and I will invite whoever I damn well please. Why don’t you mingle, you know, and make connections with people who might be useful to you…”

“Oh, _making connections,_ is it?” Roger begins to lose his patience, and he starts pacing the room. “Please, tell me how Paul, who you seem to have such a _connection_ with, is useful for us, for the band. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the only one who gets on with him is _you._ And why you like him is beyond me. He is a leech, pure and simple, and if you don’t watch out—”

“Then what?” Freddie shouts, starting up from the piano and jabbing a finger at Roger. “It seems to me, Rog, that you’re simply jealous. Who was the one who wanted the fame, who couldn’t wait to swap the van for a limousine? You. Who was the one shagging a different girl every night to the point where you forgot their names? You. From the start we had great ambitions, none more so than you, and now that you’ve got what you wanted, you have to learn that this is how it works. You can’t just be famous and not want the fans. The fans _made us,_ Roger.”

“I don’t mind the fans,” Roger hisses. “I mind the people who rub up against you, hoping to get some of that fame without doing any of the work. Because as you tend to forget sometimes, it’s showing up in the studio and _doing the work_ that counts.”

“Have I not been working all evening?” Freddie shouts. “Have I not been sat at my piano writing our next platinum record? So I’ve kept my guests waiting – let them wait! I’m fucking worth it!”

He steps closer to Roger.

“Yes, they are here for me. What’s your problem—you miss the days when they rubbed up against you, do you? You think you couldn’t get this many people to show up to one of your parties?”

Roger stares at him, his mouth working.

“No, Fred, I wouldn’t bloody mind,” he says after a pause, “because I would know that the people who were there would be people who gave a shit about me, and the music. And if you can’t see that – if you can’t see that 90 per cent of your guests are only here so they could say they used Freddie Mercury’s fucking golden toilet, then I don’t know how to make it clear to you.”

Freddie crosses his arms. He looks away, at one of the gold-framed paintings on the wall.

“Don’t tell me I’m stupid,” Roger continues, “and pretend you’ve got this fame game all figured out and we haven’t. You’re the one who’s not cottoned on yet, Fred. Brian and Deacy and me, we’re about ready to go home. We’ve seen enough of hangers-on to know we should be focusing on the music, not get sidetracked by all this, if we want to stay on top. So you’d better make your decision. Because there’s no Queen without Freddie Mercury, but there is no Freddie Mercury without Queen.”

He wants to storm past Freddie, but he stops him with his hand on his chest, surprisingly forcefully.

“Alright, take it easy, dear. Stay a minute.” Freddie’s eyes, wide but soft, search Roger’s face. “Is this how you all feel? That I’m not involved enough with the band? I know I turn up late every now and then, but--” His hand drops to his side and he takes Roger’s in his.

Roger clears his throat, looks away. He feels his anger ebbing away as quickly as it came. “Oh, we all turn up late these days. It’s just that you’re high so much of the time… and I don’t care if you’re high, as long as you do the work. And we’re afraid – _I’m_ afraid – you’re going to let these things carry you away from the real thing. From the music.” He pauses. “From us.”

Freddie smiles. “I breathe music, Roger, darling. I promise you it’ll stay that way.” He puts his hands on Roger’s shoulders, their warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt.

"But how do you think I feel? If I were to ask all of you to go out dancing with me, who would go? You’re all at home with the wives, Mary’s out with David…" He drops his eyes and studies the pattern on Roger’s shirt, brushes a long blond hair away.

"You’re no _fun_ any more, Roger-dodger."

"Is that what you think?" Roger lets out an unbelieving chuckle. "That we've all gone respectable while you're sowing your wild oats? We're here, aren't we? We’ll save the shenanigans for the tour,” he adds, in a softer voice.

“Yes, I know. But..." Freddie almost pouts. "Don’t tell me you haven’t wanted a bit of distraction from the moments in between? You said it yourself – you wish you didn’t have all these people to answer to… what’s stopping you? Let’s go downstairs, have a drink, have a dance, have something else of what you fancy…”

Roger sighs and scratches his head. “If it could be just you and me, or the four of us, at least, I would. But…” He drops his hand and looks at the door.

Freddie squeezes his shoulder, commanding his attention. He gives Roger a smile.

“Alright. How about this? You come over tomorrow, and we’ll work on this song I’ve been writing. Just us. But promise me you’ll stay a bit longer.”

Roger nods. “Alright.”

Freddie smiles and wraps his arms around him, resting his cheek against his chest. They stand like that for perhaps a minute, and Roger can’t help feeling like Freddie’s stalling. That, or gathering resolve.

Freddie lets him go, then sweeps over to the couch, where he picks up a crown, which he positions askew on his head, and an honest-to-God ermine-lined cape, which he throws around his shoulders. He turns around and twirls.

“What do you think?” He grins.

Roger can’t bite back a smile. “It suits you. Can’t say otherwise.” Freddie makes a mock bow.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to greet my loyal subjects.” He opens the door and strides down the hallway. Roger follows him, stops at the top of the stairs while the people he tripped over part to make way for Freddie. He sees Paul at the bottom, clapping and shouting like an excited teenager. Freddie gives a hug here, blows a kiss there, in his blasé fashion.

 _But there was something,_ he reminds himself as he follows in Freddie’s wake, _something about him that seemed like a confession_ , even if he cannot quite grasp just what it was. Behind him, somebody whispers, “Look out, everyone. It’s the _drummer._ ” The quip escapes him as he stares at Freddie’s back, following him through the sea of people.

Freddie goes straight for the couches, where the faces of Brian and John light up when they see him.

“Alright, boys?” Freddie sits down on the back of the couch. Roger reclaims his seat beside Dominique.

“Your royal majesty,” John replies, smiling.

“Alright, Fred?” Brian replies. Freddie spreads his arms.

“What do you think?”

“It’s, erm…” Roger watches, amused, as Brian searches for the right euphemism. “Crowded.”

“I’m so pleased you came,” Freddie tells them. “Even you, Deacy!” He ruffles John’s hair affectionately, who ducks and grins.

“You’re quiet,” Dominique whispers in his ear. “Did something happen upstairs?” Roger lets his hand fall on her thigh. “We had a fight… I worry about him. Everybody wants a piece of him now. He seems a little lost.”

Dominique closes her hand over his. “Really? You wouldn’t think it, to look at him.” They watch as the first notes of “Super Freak” over the speakers elicit whoops from the guests and Freddie, too, jumps to his feet.

“So, who fancies a dance?”

“I do,” replies Paul in sing-song. He has popped up behind Freddie like a pantomime villain. Roger bites his lip, resisting the temptation to shout “Look out, behind you!”, which seems all too fitting.

“But then again,” Dominique says, caressing his hand, “he’s Freddie Mercury. The great pretender.”

 _Yes,_ Roger thinks, watching as Freddie shimmies away with Paul on his trail. _Then why do I feel like he wasn’t pretending?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess... men talking honestly about their feelings is my kink.
> 
> Comments make my day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger discovers Freddie in the studio after recording 'Another One Bites the Dust'.

The studio is still a maze to him, even though he’s been down here nearly every day for the past three weeks. It seems to Roger that Munich must have had a surplus of bunkers on its hands after the war for which they had to find new uses, one of them being a recording studio. Though it has been luxuriously done up in gleaming chestnut and cream carpets, it still smells faintly of damp and he can’t shake the feeling of being trapped underground, with the black-and-white monolith above him crushing him very, very slowly, an inch a minute. Even though it’s 11 pm and the studio is deserted, it looks exactly the same as during the day. No windows, only recycled air and dust motes swarming like gnats around the bright TL lights.

As he walks towards the recording room he curses himself again for leaving his wallet next to his drum kit. He didn’t find out about it until he was about to pay for his and Dominique’s dinner at a nearby _Kneipe._ Rather embarrassed, he had to leave Dominique alone with the overzealous bartender and run to the studio to fetch it.

When he turns the corner into the hallway, he sees a light on in the studio – just a small one, like a table lamp. Who could that be at this hour? One of the technicians? Not that nocturnal shifts are uncommon while recording an album. He tries the door, which is unlocked, and slips into the studio, squinting against the bright spotlight of a lamp on the other side of the room. In the shadows, the grand piano crouches in the corner like a big black beetle, while his drumkit with its gleaming stalks and trimmings seems to draw all the light towards itself. Sitting on the drum riser is Freddie, his face in his hands and a towel around his neck.

Roger freezes. The pale light draws a halo around Freddie, almost ghost-like. He looks up when he hears Roger come in and sits up, gripping the edge of the platform as if readying himself for a fight. The door slams close behind Roger with a bang that echoes around the building, and they both jump. A little embarrassed, Freddie gives him something that almost looks like a smile. He’s taken off the sunglasses he wore during the afternoon and his eyes, when he turns towards the light, are bloodshot.

“Alright, Rog?” There is a slight echo in the empty room.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Roger steps back, feels for the light switch. Freddie ducks his head when he turns on the ceiling lights and goes fumbling for his sunglasses on the table. Roger watches him, his arms crossed.

“Are _you_?”

Freddie nods. He has found his sunglasses and pushes them back on his nose. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here all by myself,” he says.

“Well… yes.”

Freddie picks up the microphone from behind where he was sitting earlier, idly snaking the chord around his finger. Whatever he was on this afternoon has apparently worn off. His voice sounds normal, if a little creaky.

“I was recording some extra vocals for _Another One_ ,” he says, almost shyly. “I didn’t like how it came out this afternoon. So I did a few more takes.” He shivers; Roger notices that he’s been sweating. Freddie stands up, rubbing his bare arms, and takes his leather jacket off a chair.

“I wanted to do Deaky proud,” he says, shrugging it on. “To sing it the way he wanted me to.”

A number of after-dinner drinks have made his brain fuzzy, but still Roger understands that this is Freddie’s way of apologizing for their fight this afternoon. He wants to smile – ever the perfectionist, Fred. Nothing has changed since a few dozen Galileo’s.

“Uh… that’s great.” Roger scratches the back of his head and slides his hand down to fit in his back pocket, where he normally keeps his – oh, that’s what he came here for. He steps up on the drum riser and walks to his drumkit, where he sees his wallet on the floor next to the stool. He brandishes it in the air by way of explanation to Freddie before sticking it back into his pocket.

He’s not sure what to say to him. As much as it pains him to admit it, holding a regular conversation with Freddie has become more and more difficult. It’s odd how someone he used to be able to be around 24/7 without getting bored now sets off a fight-or-flight response in him simply by entering the room. Especially when followed by his shadow.

That afternoon, Prenter had sat in on their recording session, praising Freddie’s vocals while casually uttering things like “Do you really think this song needs a guitar solo?” and “You know, with a drum machine you can get the right sound just by pushing a _button._ ” He had enthusiastically joined the funk-disco debate, insisting that this was just what Queen needed: “ _A het the keds can daaance to_. You know,” he’d urged, “something _cool._ ”

“But we’ve always been uncool,” Brian protested. “We’ve built our reputation upon uncool. We’ve sold millions of uncool records.”

“Like it or not,” Jim had chimed in, “what you’ve just written is actually _very cool_.” And with that enigmatic smile, the one that always made you wonder what kind of character was really hiding under those suits, he added, “Antarctic, you might say.” He nodded to John, who accepted the compliment with a smile. Roger will admit to feeling a tiny bit jealous of John’s talent for writing diamonds in the rough, which usually only need a light polish from Freddie to become megahits.

 “I don’t want to feel like a drum machine,” he’d said to John, who was busy stuffing his drumkit full of blankets to muffle the sound. “Don’t worry,” John had said, putting his hand on his shoulder, “everyone will still know it’s you.” A flimsy band-aid for his wounded ego, but Roger had taken it for what it was: a plea to remember the spirit of Queen and open his mind just a bit.

For this reason, he can accept it from John when he says it’s not funk, not disco, but Queen. It’s harder, though, to take it from Freddie (“Queen is whatever I say it is!”). It’s bad enough that the papers are calling him their leader; that the rest of the band are considered uninteresting despite their equal contributions to each album. (John and Brian don’t seem to mind, though.)   _My name is Freddie Mercury, king of Queen._ _Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair._

But he will not take it from the flea in Freddie’s fur coat, whom he’d hoped he would’ve shaken by now. “The fairy from Derry,” he has nicknamed him in his mind, only because it rhymes; not that he will ever call him that to his or Freddie’s face. No matter how much Freddie gets on his nerves, he will think twice before using that term that those bastards in the papers are so fond of calling him. There’s one enemy they are united against, at least.

Standing behind the drums, his hands itch to pick up his sticks and play; only the thought of Dominique waiting for him back in the pub stops him. Freddie must have seen it, too, because he walks up towards the drums and asks, “Any new ideas?”

Roger shrugs and tips one of the cymbals with his finger, which gives a soft clang. “I’ve got something.”

Freddie claps his hands and smiles with his old, unbridled enthusiasm. “I’ll fetch a guitar.”

 _Beneath it all_ , Roger thinks, _he’s still the same old Freddie_ – the one he trusts with a new melody more than anyone. The one who started walking in circles around him that afternoon while chanting the lyrics to _Another One Bites the Dust_ , almost as if weaving a magic spell designed to make Roger’s anger disappear. No, he did not want to play drums on a disco song. But whatever Freddie was turning it into – that he _did_ want to play drums on.

Nevertheless, he smiles with secret amusement as he lets his fingers slide over the frets of the guitar Freddie has brought him. _B, E, F#..._ Freddie sways slightly to the slow finger-picking, his arms crossed.

“Ah, and then…” Roger plays the power chords, to which Freddie begins nodding his head. He is smiling.

“Sounds great. Do you have any lyrics?”

He does. “When I hear, that rock ‘n’ roll… it gets down to my soul.” The idea had come to him that evening to set himself a challenge: to write the simplest song he could think of – a rock ‘n roll song, about rock ‘n roll – and see if he could get it onto the album. A test, if you will, to see if the others would accept something so simple, and so radically different from the stuff Freddie has been peddling to them lately.

There is a reason Brian insists that “petty”, not Meddows, should be his middle name.  

“That’s really good,” Freddie says. He claps his hands again, and stands rubbing them. “Now, if we added a synthesizer—”

“No!” Roger stops playing. “No bloody synthesizer. It’s a rock ‘n’ roll song, not disco.”

Freddie raises his eyebrows, and says, coolly, “Don’t be dramatic, darling. It’s only another instrument. Would it kill you to open your mind for once?”

“I’m not—” There’s no end to this argument, Roger realizes. They seem to be going round in circles, accusing each other of the same thing over and over: the fact that they’re not who they were ten years ago, recording their first album, falling into each other’s arms when musical magic had been made. Begrudging each other the things that move them further away from each other.

“I think,” he says, trying his best to keep irritation out of his voice, “that our different musical tastes are what make us good – make us Queen.” He takes a deep breath as he prepares to speak his mind.

“But our different tastes in people—” Freddie doesn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence.

“Here we go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d call you a homophobe.” His voice trembles with barely concealed anger.

“I’m not!” Roger shouts. Anger flows through him like liquid cement, making his shoulders, arms, fingertips rigid. It's not just that Freddie's got it all wrong - that he would even think it of him, Roger, just shows that he doesn't know him at all. Not any more.  

“Prove me wrong,” Freddie hisses.

“You don’t know what you’re saying! If I’ve ever said or done anything that made it seem that way, I’m sorry, but I’m not— I’ve no problem with—”

“Have I ever said anything to you about all those poor girls you fucked around with back in the day? Have I ever _judged_ you for it? No. Funny how no newspaper did, either, whereas I seem to be some rare species they’re following around with goggles like David fucking Attenborough.”

“Freddie…” _You_ are _a rare species,_ he wants to say, but it’s not the time for quips.

“And the second I found out who I _really_ am, you fucked off.” Freddie looks at him sharply. “Isn’t that right?”

“Freddie, please believe me. I do know who you really are,” Roger says, standing up. “And I’m sorry you have to go through this, truly, I am. Prenter, he doesn’t know you. Please—”

“Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul. You know, for someone who claims to hate him so much, you talk about him an awful lot,” Freddie sneers. Roger throws up his hands and laughs; this is ridiculous!

 “I think you’re jealous of Paul,” Freddie continues in a lofty voice, “because he knows what _actually_ makes a hit.” His moustache twitches as he pulls down his upper lip over his teeth – a trick he used to make himself look tougher in the days when they played working class pubs and found themselves the only ones in there wearing bell bottoms.

Roger’s heart pounds with anger. _I’ll fucking tell you why I’m jealous,_ he thinks. _Because he has stolen you from us._ But he can’t bring himself to say it; Freddie knows just how to hit that taunting note that winds him up even more. There’s no John or Brian to put out the fire now, and he rushes towards Freddie, ready to strike him, but Freddie neatly blocks the punch and socks him in the stomach. Roger doubles over with the impact, gasping for breath. He stumbles back towards the drum riser and collapses, wheezing. Freddie hasn’t moved; he stands looking down at Roger, the bar of TL-light reflected in his glasses.

“I seem to recall you saying something about Queen staying on top,” he says. “This is how, Rog. Like it or not. And it’s none of your business who _I_ ’m on top of.”

 _Like it or not_ – it seems to be on everyone’s lips these days. Roger coughs, and glares up at Freddie.

“For the millionth time, I don’t care who you fuck.” He takes another deep breath before he can speak his mind, for the second time that evening. The pain in his stomach seems to force the words upwards. “But I worry about you.”

Freddie doesn’t move, his expression unfathomable behind his glasses. Finally, he says, “Don’t. I know what I’m doing.”

He turns on his heel and goes out of the room, leaving the door to slam itself with another startling bang. Roger rests his forehead on his knees and closes his eyes.

_Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair._

Despair sounds about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, now they're punching each other in the face... sort it out, boys!
> 
> I know they don't mention 'The Game' in the movie (which is the album Another One Bites the Dust is on, not 'Hot Space') but I was listening to it and I just loved the idea of Roger writing a song out of spite, haha.
> 
> Comments make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger confronts Freddie after he tells the band about his solo deal.

Four _million_ dollars. Four million _dollars. Four million dollars._ The words keep bouncing around his head like a pinball while he stands at the window, trying to let it sink in. Brian and John haven’t moved from their places on Freddie’s couches, nursing their own resentment, or resignation, or whatever emotion it is that somehow keeps them from punching a hole through the wall. Evidently, they are expected to show themselves out. Better, Roger supposes, than letting the door hit them on their way out.

None of them have uttered the word ‘betrayal’, but it hangs in the air nonetheless. For Freddie to go behind their backs and decide all this on his own, without airing his grievances or asking any of them for their opinion, is such a low thing to do that Roger is convinced the whole thing has been orchestrated by his ‘musical advisor’. He simply can’t believe it. It’s not just that Freddie has been offered an astronomical amount of money – though it _is_ more than Queen ever got. No, what he can’t believe is that it has actually come to this: Freddie saying he doesn’t need them any more – that they, and the music, are no longer enough.

 _The end of a friendship,_ Roger thinks, staring out at his parked Jaguar which is just visible through the shrubs in the front garden, _starts when you begin to dread seeing that person._ He has traced it back to the recording sessions in Munich, to the feelings of despair, annoyance, and then indifference planted by Freddie’s flakiness, which have been well-tended ever since. _If Freddie doesn’t want me to worry about him,_ he’d reasoned with himself, _then I guess I won’t,_ though this was, of course, easier said than done _._

As soon as they got back to England, the album was released; then came the disastrous press conference that brought it all to a head. He’d sat there, feeling like one of four zebras (not helped, admittedly, by his fondness for animal prints) in a cage full of lions who had singled Freddie out for consumption. Roger had hidden behind sunglasses and cigarette smoke, feeling, despite Brian’s efforts to turn the interrogation towards the music, disinclined to pretend like he cared much about this album on which he’d just barely consented to play. He’d listened with a mixture of pity and amusement as Freddie pulled out one vitriolic comeback after another, until he’d casually said “That might be a better question for Rog”, a cheap shot that he might’ve let slide in any other situation. But the knowledge that every word he uttered was being recorded 50 times over, especially when it came to sexual partners, had made him grow hot with anger, melting away what little pity or worry he’d been feeling. They’d gone at it afterwards, throwing accusations he doesn’t even remember now – Freddie, by this point, barely coherent and punch-drunk, Roger blinded by pent-up frustration – until Brian jumped in and convinced them all, there and then, that perhaps they ought to take a time out.

Dominique was happy to have him home with her and Felix, who, she said, took after his father in proving to be a handful. She was not wrong. Roger felt relieved when one day the phone rang and John announced he had been writing some songs, and would he come by to check them out? When he arrived at John’s house, Brian and Freddie were both there; and afterwards, at the pub, with _I Want to Break Free_ in its first tentative form on a cassette in John’s pocket, Roger had felt certain it was going to sort itself out, like it always did, like it always would. The magic, the Queen magic, was, at the end of the day, the thing that was bigger than all of them, in the face of which no tension could exist for long. In high spirits (and while drinking spirits), he’d suggested they do the video dressed in drag, which none had greeted more enthusiastically than Freddie. The whole _Hot Space_ debacle had seemed like a bad dream. Until MTV announced that they wouldn’t play the video, and Freddie called an emergency meeting.

A pity, but not the end of the world, Roger and Brian had reasoned. Yes, Americans make up a big part of their fanbase, and yes, they have MTV to thank for that – but “it’s nothing we haven’t heard from the English press,” Roger had said when Freddie, clearly affronted, complained about being called a “depraved influence”. _He takes everything so bloody personally,_ Roger had thought, drumming a beat on the arms of the armchair while Freddie ranted. _He’ll go on about getting the blame for his, but he accepts it nonetheless._

Why does the mantle Freddie has worn proudly all the years that he’s known him now weigh so heavily on him? (“Rog, there’s only room in this band for one hysterical queen.”) _Perhaps,_ says the reasonable part of Roger’s brain (which sounds distinctly like Brian), _it’s really for the best to let him express himself, this_ new _self, the way he wants to_. This battle with himself, which Roger knows has been going on for a few years now, is one they can’t win for him.

The other part of his brain is unavailable for comment except for the outraged repetition of _four million dollars._ The price tag for Freddie’s genius, with, no doubt, a big fat cut for Prenter, who has made a lucrative business out of heel-licking and blood-sucking – if not (he’s fairly certain) sucking other body parts…

He turns around; Brian and John look up expectantly, but Roger jerks his thumb towards the hallway and says, “Loo.” He wanders into the hallway, past Marlene Dietrich who casts her impassive, sultry gaze upon everyone who passes through. Once he has done his business, he hesitates before walking back to the room where John and Brian are sitting, then, on a whim, turns on his heel and walks towards the room with the rug. He pauses at the door and peeks around the corner. Freddie stands at the window, holding a cigarette between fingers he can see are trembling, even from this distance.

Roger is startled by a cat brushing up against his leg and meowing loudly, and Freddie looks over at him. His face tightens, and he turns, taking slow steps towards him, dragging on his cigarette. He stops a few feet away from Roger, languidly blowing out smoke.

Finally, he says, “You’re still here.”

Roger lifts his chin. “I’m waiting for your apology.”

Freddie lets out a puff of laughter and smoke. He spins on his heel, circling back towards the window, mindlessly kicking up a flap of the Bulsara rug when he crosses it.

“Don’t hold your breath, dear.”

“Why’d do you it, Fred?” Roger leans against the doorpost, folding his arms as he asks the one question that has been on his lips the entire afternoon. A kind of wretched amusement replaces his anger as he watches Freddie pace about the room, jittery, perhaps even guiltily, without replying. Finally, he halts in front of Roger without meeting his eyes, and for a moment Roger sees him back in that parking lot, shyly staring at his shoes.

He says, “If you must know, I had doubts for a long time.”

“About Queen?” Roger prompts. Freddie shakes his head and takes another drag.

“About the solo deal.”

 _I knew it,_ Roger thinks; there seems to be an echo in the room of words spoken earlier in this house. (“I breathe music, Roger, darling. I promise you it’ll stay that way.”)

“It was Reid’s idea – originally. I was outraged that he should even propose it – I thought he wanted to break up the band,” Freddie continues, addressing his reply to Roger’s right shoulder. “It was the reason I fired him.”

Roger’s eyes widen. “ _That’s_ why you fired him? You said it was because he’d spent a fortune on blow.”

Freddie lifts one shoulder in a shrug, as if to say, _a little white lie._ Roger stares at him, his mouth agape.

“Are you _joking_? You don’t think that was something we should’ve known about?”

Freddie waves his hand impatiently. “Miami is doing a far better job of managing us, anyway.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Roger agrees. “And isn’t it convenient that he isn’t here today to witness this bullshit going down?”

Freddie closes his eyes and rubs his face, showering cigarette ash on his shoes.

“So, you’ve been sitting on this for what? Three years? Anything else you’ve been lying about you’d like to tell me?”

“I really thought that was his game – to break up our family. I didn’t even want to think about that at the time.”

“But it’s not such a mad idea now, is it, breaking up the band? When it suits you, that is.”

Freddie opens his eyes again and stares fiercely at Roger. “Fuck you, Rog – as if this is all my fault.”

“Isn’t it? Don’t you think you should have told us, ‘Hey guys, listen to what Reid just asked me’…”

The tip of Freddie’s cigarette glows dangerously close to his fingertips, and he turns away to get rid of it.

“So why’d you change your mind? About the deal?”

Freddie shrugs, his back towards Roger, his left hand grinding down the cigarette butt in a silver ashtray. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Paul—”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Roger turns to leave, but pauses when Freddie continues, undisturbed: “—told me he’d take care of me. He said he knew what I needed…”

“And you believed him?” Roger takes a step towards Freddie, his hands falling at his side. In a softer voice, he says, “You believe he knows you better than we do?”

“I just—” Freddie rubs his neck, still not facing Roger. “I need to try something new _now._ You’re all free to do the same.”

“Goddamn right we are. Only we don’t get paid _four million dollars_ to ‘try something new.’”

Freddie turns around. He looks tired, pale and haggard, but there is a fierce light in his eyes.

“What do you want from me, Rog?”

“I want to know why you didn’t trust me,” Roger replies, clenching his fist because he feels tears starting up behind his eyes, “or any of us, with all this.”

Freddie is silent; he looks away.

“I want to know,” Roger continues, “why you’re so fucking selfish that you think have to bear everything alone, and that nobody cares how you feel.”

“If you did care,” Freddie says, “you’d let me go.”

“Let you go?” Roger wants to shout, take him by the shoulders and shake him. _As if we’ve been holding you ransom!_ But Freddie has sunk down into a chair, his temple resting against his fingertips, staring into space, and says, “Don’t you think you’ve outstayed your welcome, dear?”

 _Fuck it,_ Roger thinks. “Have it your way.” He turns around, and only hears Freddie reply “I intend to” before he slips out of the room. _So, this is it, then,_ he thinks _._ _Queen is dead._ _Long live Queen._

He turns the corner into the hall and runs smack into Paul, who pulls a very poorly practiced emphatic face. Before he can pass, Roger punches him in the nose. Prenter moans and falls to the floor, clutching his nose as blood spurts out. John and Brian rush into the hall at the noise and stand staring from Roger to Paul, who is pouring out a nearly unintelligible nasal stream of obscenities.

“Rog—” Brian says, exasperation in his voice.

“Out,” Freddie says behind Roger, his voice shaking. Roger turns to look at him, and there he sees a look so full of naked anger that it takes him aback. Without another word, Roger steps over Paul and onto his hand, his pained gasp music to his ears, and walks straight out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger and Freddie make up.

Freddie fucking Mercury is going to die. It will be months, years, maybe even decades yet, but he is. This is a fact. It’s not up for debate, though Roger foresees many a sleepless night in the future spent demanding an explanation from whatever entity’s holding Freddie’s life thread between its scissor blades. It’s a fact that is confirmed every time he glances across the table and sees the same shock that must still be written across his face when he meets Brian or John’s eyes. It is a cold, hard, test-result fact: Freddie is going to die. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week, but soon.

Freddie himself seems to be bearing it better than all three of them combined, which is, Roger suspects, because the tears he’s shed and his rage, grief, and self-pity have long since given way to acceptance. He can’t imagine it was all that big a surprise to him, anyway, given the unapologetic way he’s been speaking these past weeks about the three years they spent apart. The parties, the clubs, the men, the women – “and I wouldn’t change a thing,” he says, leaning back with his glass of champagne (which he’s made the bewildered bartender dust off and deny its destiny of being toasted at some grand occasion. Although, isn’t that what this is?).

 _Larger than life,_ Roger thinks now, agreeing with thr newspaper headlines for once as he watches Freddie. _Going to the pub and ordering champagne._ _You wouldn’t think he’s just received a death sentence._ The realization hit him, as they walked down the street to the pub, that all this time he’s been thinking of Freddie as weak. Not strong enough to escape Paul’s clutches, or sober up, or be upfront to them about the decisions he made that affected the band. But though Roger hasn’t forgotten any of it, he also well remembers that shy-looking, buck-toothed boy in the parking lot who stood there begging for a chance to prove himself, or the repetition of that scene (add a few wrinkles, shorter hair and a moustache) two weeks ago in Miami’s office. And that boy is the strongest person he knows.

As with vocal chords, you don’t just resume a conversation after a three-year hiatus without a hitch. It takes a while to warm up – to sort out the creaks and the false notes, to test the high and the low tones. Freddie has ordered them to avoid speaking the words ‘illness’, ‘aids’ or ‘death’ on pain of getting a round for everyone, which for the first hour turned their conversation into a strange kind of drinking game with plenty of slip-ups and the swift accumulation of only half-finished drinks as a result. There was a general feeling of dangling above an opened trapdoor and all of them pretending not to be afraid of what lay beneath, yet unable to keep from looking down every now and then. How do you have a normal conversation after a revelation like that? But now, with their talk steered into safe territory – Live Aid, Freddie’s family, their families –, it gets easier. The actual word they’re trying to avoid, it seems to Roger, is _time._ Making up for lost. Flying and running out. Wasted and spent. Out of. Plenty of.

“I don’t think we should play all of _Bo Rhap_ ,” Freddie says, interrupting Roger’s train of thought. “Just the intro, then on into another song.”

“ _Somebody to Love_?” John suggests. Freddie snorts.

“‘Each morning I get up I die a little’? A little too prophetic, isn’t it?” Freddie’s words are greeted with silence. Roger catches John glancing furtively at him, then looking down at the table. Brian clears his throat. Freddie interrupts the lull himself by stating, “And that’s a strike for me. I’ll get the next round.”

Jim takes the last sip of the Campari he’s been nursing for the past hour and rises to get his coat. As he shrugs it on, he says quietly to Roger, “Try to get him alone. I know he’s got something to say to you.” They exchange a smile and Jim claps his hand on his shoulder. He nods at the others – “Brian, John” –  then goes to say goodbye to Freddie.

He _couldn’t even make Freddie stay,_ Roger thinks, watching as the two embrace warmly. Who could have? It’s an argument he’s had with himself many times, as well as with Brian and John. Were they sure it had nothing really to do with him? Would things have gone differently if he’d kept his suspicions about Paul and his fists to himself, like they had? “Freddie’s just in a bad place, that’s all,” Brian would say, who was of the infuriatingly rational opinion that this was a natural occurrence in the life of the organism that was Queen and had calmly started making plans for a solo album of his own. John had been a little more cut up, but like a wounded animal had crawled back into his shelter, with his family. Roger himself would lie alone in bed (Dominique having moved to the other bedroom), staring up at the ceiling and running through the list of arguments he and Freddie had had over the years, alternating between two conclusions: that he and only he was to blame for driving Freddie away, or that he had always been in the right and that that pompous, wayward prick could go fuck himself.

When Freddie comes back with the next round of drinks, Roger, seeing John and Brian engaged in a low-voiced discussion, brandishes his packet of smokes. He waves them at Freddie, raising his eyebrows by way of invitation.  

“Finally – I’d love a fag,” Freddie says, setting down the drinks. “Oh, and a cigarette too, if you have one.” Roger rolls his eyes at the joke, but he can’t suppress a smile as they walk to the door.

They step outside, squinting against the bright June afternoon. Roger pats his pockets and realizes he’s left his sunglasses inside. He debates going back in to fetch them, but Freddie has already taken a cigarette and lit it, sucking on it eagerly, and so the moment is, suddenly, theirs.

Freddie exhales. “Tricky things, vocal chords,” he says, after a moment.

“Yes,” Roger says, mentally mapping out the route from safe conversational territory to what he really wants: an explanation. What exactly was it that made Freddie snap out of it so abruptly, so willing to flagellate himself in front of them? Much as he’d welcomed his long-overdue apology at the time, Freddie’s readiness to apologise and his entreating looks had made Roger realise that he had truly changed. _He’s done his time_ , he thinks, _maybe too much of it_ , and yet, according to some inscrutable cosmic system of checks and balances, he still has to pay for it – dearly. It’s simply unfair.

“You’re a bit out of practice, is all,” he says, lighting his own cigarette. He idly wonders if a person’s voice is the first thing to be affected by aids, but he’s not about to ask.

Freddie snorts. “Only a bit.”

They let the smoke occupy the space between them for a while. Then Freddie says: “I’ve met someone.”

“Really? Who?”

“His name is Jim.”

“Jim,” Roger repeats, and can’t help but smile. Freddie’s wearing the expression he gets when they achieve precisely the right vocal harmony on record. “Will we get to meet him?”

“Maybe,” Freddie says, with a sly little smile, and blows out a jet of smoke, revving up for more small talk. Before Roger can think of another question about the mysterious Jim, he asks, “And how’s Dominique?”

“Well…” Roger clears his throat. “We’re having problems.” The question takes him away from the distractions of Live Aid and Freddie’s diagnosis and back to his lonely bedroom, the communication via kitchen-counter notes, the lawyer appointment planned for next week. Roger sucks his cigarette right down to the filter, longing to fill his lungs with smoke to dislodge the knot in his chest.

“Oh, Rog. I’m sorry to hear that,” Freddie says, sympathetically. Roger shrugs and exhales, throws the cigarette butt to the ground and grinds it down with his boot.

“It’s how these things go, you know. We’re just debating what we’re gonna do about the kids.”

Freddie nods. “Yes. Felix and—”

“Rory,” Roger supplies. He takes another cigarette out of the packet and lights it.

Freddie gives him a sideways glance. “There’s no other woman, is there?”

“No,” Roger says, and he can’t resist quipping, with a smile, “but it’s only 5:30.” Freddie laughs.

“Glad to see you haven’t changed a bit.”

Roger smiles at him, but doesn’t reply. The truth is that he’s never felt more like a different person compared to when he woke up this morning than he does now. It seems surreal to be discussing kids and vocal chords, the tiny problems of human beings compared to the looming figure of imminent Death. But Freddie seems intent on burying the hatchet, because he says, “You were right about Paul all along, you know. I was a fool for thinking he cared about me.”

He sounds repentant. The moment where Freddie comes running towards him begging him to take him back – or, alternatively, where he offers up a genuine apology – has passed Roger’s mind’s eye in many different guises. But now that it’s here in all its mundanity, half-obscured by the noise of cars rushing by in the road nearby, it feels oddly deflated. _So do I,_ Roger reflects. Nothing like a terminal disease to put things into perspective.

“It happens,” is all he can think of saying.

Freddie looks at him. “That’s it? No victory dance?”

Roger snorts, despite himself. “Even flagellation gets boring after a while,” he says in a forced breezy tone, but at Freddie’s look of disbelief he drops it again. It all just seems so unimportant. There’s no blame to be laid anywhere for Freddie’s diagnosis, much as he’d like to do so; and ultimately, the smoke curling upwards, the warm rays of the sun and the pressure of Freddie’s arm against Roger’s tell him that no imagined victory or truth established is worth more to him than this moment.

“But you’re right,” Roger says, now more seriously, though he smiles at Freddie to put him at ease. “He did not care about you.” .

Freddie stares ahead.

“Would you believe he gave an interview about me? He said—”

“Fred.” Freddie turns his head to look at him.

“Let’s not talk about him.”

Freddie nods and smiles – gratefully, Roger thinks. “Alright.”

They smoke in silence for a minute. In his head, Roger performs a frantic calculation – pride minus friendship, divide by reconciliation, multiply by sympathy – and takes a breath before he says, “I do still owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

Roger hesitates – but there is no going back now. “I gave up on you. A couple of times, actually.”

Freddie looks at him, shielding his face against the sun with his left hand so he can look into his eyes.

“Gave up?”

“Well, yes. After you told us about the solo deal. And the _Hot Space_ fiasco. I was just completely through with you.”

Freddie says nothing for a second. Then he says, “Well, you had good reason to. I was insufferable, I know.”

“Yes, but still. It’s not what friends should do.”

Freddie turns away again, and takes a drag. He blows out the smoke thoughtfully. Then he says, “But you wanted me back all the same.”

Roger shrugs. “It was enough for me to hear you say sorry and mean it, really.” He grins. “Lucky I didn’t hold my breath.”

“Really!” Freddie raises his eyebrows. “Just one little ‘sorry’ from me? Here I thought I was going to have to grovel and admit I thought _I’m in Love with my Car_ should have been the single on  _Opera_ all along.” He regards Roger with a small smile, then ruffles his hair affectionately. “Maybe you _have_ changed, after all.”

“Don’t tell that lot,” Roger says, gesturing towards the pub entrance with one hand and amending his hairdo with the other. “I’ve got a reputation to keep up.” 

He winks and they grin at each other. Their cigarettes are finished, but Freddie crosses his arms and leans his head against the sun-warmed wall. He closes his eyes.

“I’ve wasted time,” he says. “With him. And arguing with you. Precious time we could’ve spent making music, or…” He shrugs, taps out a rhythm on the wall behind him. It seems to be easier for Freddie to talk here, outside, where the wind can snatch the words away rather than blow weakly under the door of the pub, just enough to let them mix with the stale air and push them about under the heavy wooden beams on the ceiling.

Roger isn’t sure how to reply. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” he says, maybe to comfort himself more than Freddie. Freddie looks at him with a small smile, as if they have silently agreed to start using the word ‘time’ in a completely different way now, as if it were a meaningless, malleable thing.  

Suddenly, Freddie reaches for Roger’s hand and covers it with his own. He looks at Roger, and says, “You know, a few weeks ago, in Munich, I had a dream about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes. You were a dentist and I was in your chair. And you said to me, ‘I can pull all of your teeth and give you brand new ones. Whichever ones you like. But without your old ones, you won’t be Freddie Mercury.’ And that was the reason—well, one of the reasons—I knew I had to come home.”

Roger is stunned. For lack of some profound response, he says, “Was I wearing the dentist scrubs?”

Freddie laughs. “Not to worry, dear. You were dressed pretty much like this - and looking handsome, too.” He slips his arm around his waist and lays his head on Roger’s shoulder. Roger leans in until his temple rests against Freddie’s hair. Maybe Freddie did have that dream, and maybe he didn't. But he’ll take it.

“I’ve missed you, Roger-dodger,” Freddie mumbles.

“I’ve missed you too,” Roger says, his throat constricting.

“Don’t start crying again.”

“It’s the sun in my eyes,” Roger protests, and Freddie’s laughter rings clearly down the street.

Life without Freddie. Even after three years of practice, he has a feeling it won't be any easier to get used to. 

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are - it's finished! (Or is it?) Thanks for sticking with my erratic update schedule and - alas - the lack of hot scenes. I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! Please leave a comment if you did :-)


	6. Epilogue

_And would it have been worth it, after all,  
__After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,  
__Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,  
__Would it have been worth while,  
__To have bitten off the matter with a smile (…)_?  
-T.S. Eliot – _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_

 *

As the limo whisks them away from Wembley stadium, snaking around the streets that have been cordoned off to handle the masses entering and leaving the stadium, Roger looks down to see his hands shaking, warmed up by twenty minutes’ playing and ready for at least five times that. The rest are just as fired up; Brian keeps crossing and uncrossing his long legs while John chatters away and Freddie sits nodding along enthusiastically, wearing an enormous smile.  

They’ve done it. Live Aid, which had loomed so enormously in their minds compared to any other gig they’ve ever done – not just because of the size of the crowd, but because of the cause – is over. What are they going to do now?

“Record the next album, of course,” says Freddie, waving a knife covered in blood-red marmalade. The lovely July weather encourages a picknick in the garden at Garden Lodge, which Freddie has pointed out he’s just had redone in the Japanese style. There are the familiar tinned sardines and ham, but there is also marmalade – an improvement – and some egg salad Freddie says was made by his cook. He’s brought out the lavish tea set and they’ve formed a circle around it on the lawn. Soon enough, they’re joined by Miami, Mary, and Freddie’s new beau, Jim, whom Freddie sent the limo back to collect at Wembley.

Roger studies Jim, who seems friendly and relaxed in contrast to Freddie, who is dancing attendance upon him in every sense of the word, fluttering like a butterfly. It's lovely to see Freddie so openly affectionate with someone, and Roger thinks, hopefully, that the time for keeping secrets (“It’s none of your business who _I’m_ on top of”) is definitely past.

As he walks past the room with the rug on his way to the bathroom, Roger remembers something – a promise he made years ago.  

“What are you doing tomorrow, Fred?” he asks when he steps back into the garden. “--bloody hell. What was in that tea?” John and Brian are laid out flat on their stomachs on the lawn, their poofy hairdos sticking up like enormous dandelions, absorbed in something happening in the grass.

“Tomorrow?” Freddie asks, glancing at his bandmates with a fond smile.

“Yeah. I thought I’d take you for a drive – as promised.” Freddie looks at him, a smile spreading across his face.

“Consider my schedule cleared.”

Roger claps him on the shoulder, then goes to join Brian and John on the lawn. They’ve taken the sugar pot and are now following a group of ants trying to lift a sugar cube.

“Tell us, Mr Biologist,” John says, “how many times can they lift their own weight again?”

“Fifty times,” Roger replies. He glances over his shoulder at Freddie, now sitting on Jim’s lap, and thinks,  _and the same goes for some humans._

*

“Fred, come on!” Roger shouts, pounding his car horn for the third time. Freddie finally emerges, locking the heavy gate behind him. An old woman walking past looks disapprovingly from the shiny red Jaguar to Freddie, who is wearing an enormous sunhat. Roger laughs as he turns around.

“I feel like Clyde picking up Bonnie from prison,” he calls out.

“Why do you get to be Clyde?” Freddie asks, picking up his two suitcases and carrying them over to the car.

“Fred, you don’t need two suitcases to go to the beach!”

“How do you know what’s in them?” Freddie asks, accusingly.

“I can guess. Can’t you just pick which Speedo you want to wear here rather than drag twenty of them along?”

“I’ve only brought four,” Freddie replies. “Anyway, it’s only the essentials. Sun cream, parasols, folding chairs, floaties, a cooler…”

“Alright, one – it’s cloudy. Two – there’s no room.” Roger gestures to his backseat, which comfortably fits his toddlers, but not much else. He winces as Freddie tries to wrangle the suitcases in anyway, rubbing leather exterior against leather upholstery with a nauseating squeaking sound. When he has finally managed it, he walks around the Jaguar to get in.

“NOT the seats!” Roger lunges forward to stop Freddie, who has lifted his leg over the door, his foot hovering above the passenger seat. Freddie laughs.

“Only joking, dear.” He opens the door.

“My kids are more well-behaved than you,” Roger tells him as he throws himself into the seat. Freddie says, “Gosh, this is low to the ground. I feel like if we take this out on the motorway we’ll end up with our bums chafed.”

“You should be used to that.”

Freddie throws his head back and laughs as Roger turns the key. The car rumbles to life.

“Oh, she purrs,” Freddie says, happily. “I can see why you like her. So, where to? Nice? St Tropez?”

Roger replies, “I thought Southend-on-Sea would do,” and with a smile he adds, “for our seaside rendez-vous.”

“It certainly does,” Freddie replies. He puts on his sunglasses as Roger reverses out of his parking spot, and with a roar they take off down the street.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I couldn’t resist writing a little epilogue… 😊 And here’s a bit of a longer author’s note, for those who are interested in what went through my mind while writing this fic. If you’re in the “death of the author” camp, feel free to skip.
> 
> I was extremely pleased to read your comments saying how realistic my writing was, most of all because I was very torn between how I should represent Roger and Freddie’s relationship in this fic. I started it because I wanted to write a sweet little scene between Roger and Freddie, but it (obviously) grew into something a lot bigger, which chronicles their relationship up to the end of the movie.
> 
> I was conflicted because after seeing the movie a second time and talking it over with friends, I came to the conclusion that I did not at all like how they pitted Roger against Freddie in the film. In real life Roger would never have put his family over Freddie in that scene; I really disliked how they made it seem as if Freddie was a queer, unrestrained, flamboyant, Bad Person who had to pay his dues by doing Live Aid, while Roger, Brian and John were all Good Boys who stayed at home with their families. It condemned Freddie’s queerness in a way that I really do not agree with at all. Roger Taylor, in real life, was supportive of Freddie’s solo endeavours and they were generally very silly, warm and playful together. I wanted to capture some of that. Then again, as the premise of the fic was ‘deleted scenes from the movie’, I felt had to keep in step with the plot, and the animosity between Freddie and Roger certainly plays a role in how events unfold.
> 
> I hope I’ve succeeded in walking that line, though I will admit I did not always feel comfortable doing it. I would like to return to them in the future, veering a little further away from the movie and depicting them more realistically.
> 
> Thanks again for reading and a very happy new year to all of you!


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